A. L. Buehrer What I Write and Why

Thursday, November 21, 2013

I bid you velcome. This blog is actually an author blog in disguise. Don't worry, I won't be pushing my books in your face five times in every single post. The material you discover here should be of interest regardless of whether you ever intend to read my novels in this life. Eventually, there will be links to my Amazon page etc. available, but don't feel commercial-mugged.
I have written a soon-to-be-published sci-fi trilogy called Stardrift. Actually, I've written about five and a half novels, but I'm not as certain of the marketability of my current trilogy. You'll here more on Stardrift later, when it comes out.
Other features of this blog will include some of my original poetry and art, which may or may not be at all related to my larger body of literary work. One final note: the time between posts on this blog will be irregular, so keep on your toes. I'll try to post once a week at the least, but I warn you, I live a very uncertain life.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

I pushed back the curtain and an empty doorway stood gaping. Glancing once back over my shoulder to be sure that they hadn't followed me, I ventured in. The lady in the mirror had been right. There was the stairway. The steps led up through darkness, until, somewhere far above, there was a light. Carefully, I let the shimmery blue velvet fall over the door that would take me back to the cold silent library on the second floor.
I was only three steps up when I stopped. I looked down at my feet. Trickling down the stairs was the most ethereal little stream of silky white mist. I reached down and touched the curling rivulet. It curled around my finger, but I couldn't feel it.
From somewhere up there, I thought I heard a child laughing. A strange but familiar sound in such an empty house. I kept climbing until I came upon a dimly lit room with a peaked ceiling. I looked around, listening to the wind. The wooden floor creaked under my bare feet. There was a little box on the windowsill at the far end. I had come to open it. The hinges squeaked softly, and I looked down into it. A bird.
I reached my finger down and stroked the soft gray feathers. I had expected the body to be cold. But then, it stirred. I started back. The finch started up and began to circle the room. The window. I had to get it open.